


Don't Make a Sound - Grillby/Reader fic

by SigmaEnigma



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Canon/Reader - Freeform, F/M, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaEnigma/pseuds/SigmaEnigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel of And The Flames Went Higher:<br/>"The bed is uncomfortably cold, and it’s entirely your fault..."</p>
<p>Grillby/Reader fic. Reader insert has no pronouns/gender specific words used for them (in this fic, first part had them female bodied).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Make a Sound - Grillby/Reader fic

The bed is uncomfortably cold, and it’s entirely your fault. You know it is.

  
You haven’t seen Grillby much since The Night. The Night which was titled due to you not knowing how to fit the entire events into a compact title which could include every feeling and action swiftly. So The Night worked for right now. It wasn’t even that The Night was a bad night or anything, you remember it clearly and at times more than fondly. The way you invited him into your house, how you fell asleep next to him on the couch, how you sat on his lap on said couch watching firelight dance behind his glasses. Glasses, which he later left at your house due to later escapades that you would rather not think of while in public.

  
No, The Night wasn’t bad, but it was a slow burn (ha) of anxiety that had lasted a good two weeks now and was making its way into a third. And you still had the freaking glasses, waiting for the right time to bring them back and perhaps talk about…something, with Grillby. Whether it was The Night, after the Night, something completely different you didn’t care but the mere thought of The Night coming up at any point was probably the reason you’d been avoiding the bar. Which wasn’t the easiest to do given that while human businesses and shopkeepers had opened up now in the underground, the places to eat didn’t have the same quality of food as the homegrown areas. And while the Capital was your favorite spot for eateries besides Grillby’s, you didn’t always feel like taking the long trek from there to home every day. Or maybe you were just missing the old dive of a bar, maybe you were missing the company of the local patrons, maybe you were just missing the company of a certain flame-headed bartender.

  
Okay, it was that last one, but you couldn’t go.

  
But you had to go, you had his glasses, what if he needed them? Did he need them? You never really asked about that, maybe you should ask about that instead of addressing the elephant in the room screaming ‘HEY GRILLBY WE HAD SEX! WHAT ABOUT THAT?’ But that elephant would shut up if they knew what was good for them. That’s where the rest of the guilt comes from, what did you even know about this guy to just go and do all of that?

  
What did you ever ask him, what did he like, hate, what did you even know? You just stared at him, watching him tend to a bar that you didn’t know if he owned or if ‘Grillby’ was a family name or something. What did he do when he wasn’t at the bar, what did he like making most there? What did you know about him at all? Did you want to know anything? Was this one time or did you want to continue it as a casual affair? Did you want more? Did he want more?

  
Fuck you still have his glasses. You didn’t even know where he lived to just mail them or stick them in the mailbox and to hell with asking someone to give them to him that’ll start something else entirely.

  
So it has to be you, you have to get out of your bed and just rip off the bandage and just do this. You have to, it’s the only way. You get up, still in your clothes for work and manage to get on your shoes and coat while stuffing the glasses snug in your pocket and rushing out the door before you can convince yourself to hide back behind it.

  
The snow is absolutely covered in footprints and you nearly trip due to the changes between deep trenches and shallow footfalls. The snow is starting to fall between your feet and shoes, packing against your toes and making you wish to get everything over with so you can just change and go back to bed. You brush elbows with passing residents and tourists trying to get last minute things done before settling in for the night. Some are alone, others with company. You bury envy down and away. You have nothing to be envious of anyway. At least you convince yourself of that for a little while.

  
At some point between self-hate and envy and convince yourself that you have neither, you arrive at the bar. It’s crowded, typical evening folks grabbing a quick meal and familiar conversation before going on to a work day where they probably partake in neither. The married dog sentries are chattering with a couple you’re convinced would be their human counterparts were dog years added, a slightly melting amalgam of dog-shapes standing nearby and in a deep one-sided conversation with another dog sentry, neither of which you realize are actually verbally speaking. At the bar are the same fish-based being in a greasy A-shirt and their cocktail-dress-wearing companion, they notice you, and wave hellos that are quick but homely.

  
Then you see Grillby, there are others in the bar, of course, but Grillby is the one your attention focuses on. He’s wearing the same bartending outfit as always, bowtie neat, vest pressed, white shirt cuffed properly and collar set just so. His glasses are different however, now a set of square frames, older looking, but not worn, the kind left as backups and forgotten until needed. His head lifts up from the bar, whether he felt someone in front of him or saw your reflection in the polished wood of the counter something only he is sure of, but he’s looking at you. His shoulders tense, just for a moment, the kind that could be mistaken as just a normal moment of body oddness. But you can tell that if he had eyes, they would’ve widened. You stand on the other side of the counter, the seat you usually take inviting, but still refused. Grillby is gripping the beer-mug tightly in his hand now, you swear that under the rag he’s using to clean it, he’s hiding the newly forming indents from his body heat.

  
“I’ll have a special, to go.” You say it in a voice of indifference, burying everything down inside you. It’s the first thing you’ve said to him in weeks.  
He nods, turning and leaving through the Fire Exit to get your order. You feel the glasses in your pocket, thumb running over the rim and just brushing the glass. Most likely smudging them in the process.

  
When Grillby returns, he sets the bag on the counter in front of you. You pull out your wallet and hand him the money and, in the process of doing so, the glasses as well. You notice yellow travelling up to Grillby’s face as you do so, but you’ve already told yourself that the bar is full enough that no one will notice the oddity in the exchange. You take your to go bag and just as you do Grillby’s posture changes, face moving slightly, as if about to say something, then reversing the process and becoming the stoic bartender once more. You give him a nod of thanks, a wave of your hand also meaning thanks, a mumbling of the actual word thanks, and then quickly make your way out of the bar and into the cold night.

 

Once you’re back home, you eat the food in silence. Or at least try to. You’re not entirely hungry anymore and it’s currently not tasting the greatest, but that can be blamed on a lot of things. You decide to pack the meal back up and store it in for fridge for another time. After shutting the fridge you stand there for what is probably a solid minute with your forehead resting against the door, occasionally giving it a light bump with your head in frustration.

  
This was stupid. Totally and completely stupid.

  
The way Grillby looked as you left the bar replaying in your head like a theatre of guilt.

  
You were acting stupid, it wasn’t his fault that anything happened. You were the one that invited him in, you wanted stuff to happen and boy did you get it to happen. Now you weren’t sure if you liked it or not? No, no you were sure you liked it. But did he? Did he actually like it? If he did then why leave without as much as a goodbye?

  
Of course no answers come to you in that dimly lit room. Unless of course, knocks on doors are answers, but since you weren’t expecting guests, in this case it’s just another question to add into your mind. Several questions actually, mostly whos and whys. Of course you don’t open the door right away, because you don’t really care in your state of self-hate, but the knocking persists in varying patterns on your door and you’re convinced that if you don’t answer it now your door will come down with the visitor’s pure determination alone.

  
So you make yourself semi presentable and go towards the door, trying to choose between a fully cheerful smile or a façade much closer to your actual feelings. You decide on a tired smile that can read as a hard worker about to settle down for the night, and open the door a crack.

  
“Yes?” You don’t notice your visitor’s identity at first, still trying to figure out your next line in order to politely dismiss them from your house. Instead you say nothing after the initial greeting because before you is your currently-unprepared-self’s nightmare.

  
Before you is Grillby, wearing a long mulberry trench coat, candle-whick-“hair” secured under an old newspaper-boy-styled cap, he’s looking at you through the glasses you dropped off at the bar and in his outstretched gloved hand he’s holding what you realize to be your wallet.

  
Oh.

  
“You left this on the counter.” He moves his hand a bit toward you, as if trying to give an offering to a frightened creature. You take the wallet slowly, you take note of its warmth.

  
“Thanks…” You lean on the door frame, wallet in your hand. Your gratitude and attitude far from matching as made obvious by Grillby’s unnerved stature.

  
“And thank you for my glasses.” He slips his hand back into its pocket, giving a quick nod in your direction. Apparently agreeing what Grillby feels is the end of your meeting, but what his feet seem to disagree with, as his is still standing there.

  
“You’re welcome.” And you’re still standing there. And you wonder if he also has the growing pit of anxiety in his stomach as you have in yours. But of course you don’t ask him. When did you ever ask him anything?

  
“Are you alright?” Why is he asking that?

  
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You’re going to shut the door.

  
“I haven’t seen you around.” He’s still standing there.

  
“Been busy.” Your wallet is still warm.

  
“Work?” Why is he asking?

  
“Yeah.” The door is still open.

  
“…Did something happen?” You happened.

  
“I’m fine, really.” You happened to him.

  
“…Right…I’m sorry.” Why is he sorry?

  
“It’s fine.” It’s not fine. You shut the door anyway. The sound of his feet crunching in the snow in retreat is the only goodbye you get. The only one you force him to make. You’re such a fucking idiot.

  
Your wallet is still warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp, guess no happy ending this time. Don't worry, there's plenty room for a happy ending!


End file.
